PTSD- Post Traumatic Sherlock Death
by Fandomness
Summary: Sherlock is dead. And John is coping. He thinks. But what happens when a dead detective shows up where he shouldn't? How is John going to cope? And is this a secret he should keep?
1. Chapter 1

**Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I merely wish to make him dance.**

**Sherlock twirled and skipped- but not like that.**

**This story is actually more about John and takes place post Reichenbach. John starts hallucinating Sherlock back into his life. These are actual crazy person images not Sherlock pulling a joke and to be honest I'm not sure what the plot is. It might just be John hallucinating Sherlock until he returns. This isn't Johnlock people. At least not intentionally. If you want to see it that way, there is literally nothing I can do to stop you but this is really more of a BroTP situation. Anywho, I'll shut up. R&R please!**

John didn't want to open his eyes. Didn't want to push back the blankets, scrub at his teeth and try to face the day. John wanted to curl against the pillow, squeeze his eyes shut and pretend the last three weeks never happened. He wanted to wake up to the sound of violin music or gun shots, wanted his flat mate to poke his head around the door and make a show of asking for permission before using his gym socks as eye ball packaging for some hair brained experiment no one else in the world would ever find a use for.

But the last three weeks had happened. Moriarty had happened. And John's flat mate would never again keep him awake into the wee hours of the morning, or lace his coffee with hallucinogens, or blind fold him and drive him out into the country and ask him to identify their location by the taste of the dirt. Because Sherlock Holmes was dead. Had been buried two days ago.

So John opened his eyes. He pushed back the blankets, scrubbed his teeth and forced himself to face the day. Or at least, to face breakfast.

John shuffled into the kitchen of 221b. Baker Street. He hadn't been able find another place in his price range. Not without taking another flat mate. And he wasn't up to that. Not yet. Though he supposed, after Sherlock anyone else would probably be very easy to get on with.

"Probably be a bit boring." John mumbled to himself as he set the kettle up for tea. The kitchen was cleaner then John had ever seen it in the months he'd lived there. Mrs. Hudson had packaged Sher- packaged the extra things and moved them down to 221c. Where they'd be out of the way while something was figured out to do with them.

The place seemed incredibly empty now. John drummed his fingers against the counter. Trying not to think of the argument he would've probably been in at that moment if...if he wasn't alone.

"Could always argue with myself." He cleared his throat, running a thumb over a nick in one of the cupboards. "Though there doesn't seem to be much point. Considering I'd just agree with myself." He cleared his throat again, glancing around the flat to be sure it was empty as he caught himself talking to his self for the fourth time in half as many days. "Going a bit crazy. Was bound to happen with a room mate like-" The whistle of the kettle interrupted him and he turned to his tea gratefully. Setting that aside to steep John set about his usual morning toast, humming the melody to a song he couldn't remember in an effort to hold off anymore one sided conversations.

He set the bread to brown and turned to the fridge, half expecting to see another man's head looking out at him. But the kitchen wasn't the only thing to have been emptied in the last near month. Molly had swung by nearly a week ago and emptied the fridge of any postmortem people parts as well, and John tried not to miss the reek of it as he reached for the butter and jam. The toast popped up and John set about buttering it, failing to keep his mind blank. He had to set the knife down as he found himself musing on the possibility of Molly loaning him a foot or something for the fridge, just for nostalgia's sake. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing a breath out through his nose and snatched up the jam.

"Mental." He breathed, struggling to remove the lid.

"Mmm. I agree." Sherlock muttered behind him. "Molly's far too ethical to be loaning feet. It twists the other way John."

"Uh." John nodded his thanks as the jam lid finally came loose and then froze. The jar of preservatives slipped from his fingers, falling sideways and splattering across the counter. "Sherlock?"

Silence. Gripping the counter for support, John turned slowly. The kitchen was empty. Sherlock's chair pushed up against the bare table. No sounds coming from any other corners of 221b. John was alone.

Of course he was. "Sherlock is dead." John forced the words out, remembering his therapist had mentioned something about acceptance. "Sherlock is..." His teeth clenched together, refusing to release the last word. Once was his limit. Once was bad enough. Releasing a shaky breath John slid to the floor pressing his face into his hands. He was alone.

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me. _

And even though they made the pain double in his chest John was glad the words were only in his head. He only wished that in that moment they didn't seem so true.

**AN I would like for this to be a multi-chapter thing, so I'm going to need your reviews if you want me to keep going. Also feel free to PM me situations where you want John to see Sherlock or any other plot twists you think would add to the story. K' Bye.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, and personal playthings of Steven Moffat. Here's chapter 2! I know, so soon? Don't get used to it. I have all the focus of Sherlock without a case so... yeah. Anyway R&R!**

It had been several days since John's...'episode' as he had decided to call it, and there had been no repeat performances. He'd chalked it up to too many restless nights, and prescribed himself a few extra hours of sleep. God knows he needed it. It felt like years since he had slept through the night. He was half used to it. He hadn't come away from the war without a few 'home videos' to keep him remembering. He'd gotten used to it then. As much as a man could.

But then he'd met Sherlock, got into working cases between a few hours of proper work and the nightmares had slipped away for awhile. Whether it was from exhaustion or something more psychological he wasn't sure. Didn't care, just so long as the dreams stopped coming. But now...

Now he was afraid to get into bed at night. Afraid to close his eyes on the tube. Afraid to drink a sodding cup of tea after ten PM. Afraid that if he did, both his wars would come back to haunt him.

John jerked awake at the gentle knock at his door, staring down at the paper in his hands in confusion, blinking away half formed images of Westwood suits, and rippling pool water. He must have dozed off. He tried to shake the sleep out of his head as he added reading the paper to his list of 'don't's; and went to answer the door. The knock came again just before he grabbed the handle and he swung the door open.

Sherlock smirked at him.

"Hello John."

He jerked back with a strangled yelp, blinking hard and fighting not to fall on his arse.

"Oop. You alright dear? Almost had a bit of a tumble." Mrs. Hudson teetered through the door, bearing a covered dish. "Just thought I'd bring something by to be sure you didn't go hungry."

"Mrs. Hudson." John wasn't sure if he was relieved. Or disappointed. She gave him a smile as she carried the tray to the kitchen, setting it at the table and fussing about for a plate. John followed her slowly, leaving the door hanging open behind him. He watched Mrs. Hudson spoon out what looked like shepherd's pie, trying to decide between wrapping his mind around what he'd seen and forgetting it completely.

"There you are dear, now you just sit down and have a few mouthfuls of that, and I'll see about giving this place a bit of a seeing to."

John ran a hand down his face, taking a seat and pulling the plate across the table from Sherlock's place to his own. He forked up a bite and gave Mrs. Hudson a look while she pretended to sweep crumbs off the counter.

"Thought you weren't our housekeeper?"

Mrs. Hudson reached over and gave his head a sharp tap, fighting a smile.

"Cheeky." She turned to the living room, and John dug into his food. It tasted a lot better then the toast he had been living off of for the last few weeks, he felt suddenly ravenous as the weight of the first few bites settled into his stomach.

"The body needs sustenance John."

His eyes jerked up and met the icy cool gaze of Sherlock, watching him over steepled fingers.

"Sher-"

"I do wish you'd have let me get rid of this old thing John."

Mrs. Hudson's voice drew his eyes momentarily from the apparition seated across from him and when he looked back the chair was empty. He stared for a moment and then forced himself to turn away as Mrs. Hudson kept speaking.

"Don't know why he kept the ruddy thing in the first place..."

John wolfed a few more bites but the hunger had left him along with the vision of Sherlock and he turned instead to watch Mrs. Hudson as she regarded the old skull on the mantle. He thought perhaps she was trying to look disapproving but had only managed a sort of bitter fondness.

"It's not decent." She turned away, wiping a finger across her eyes and clasping shaken hands in front of her skirt. "Keeping a dead man's head..."

John hunched over his plate, scraping his fork through lumps of tomato, and minced lamb, swallowing down the bitter nausea the thought of Sherlock's life always brought. Mrs. Hudson slumped into John's worn old arm chair, leaning her face into her hand and they shared a long moment of melancholy silence.

"Yes. Well, Sherlock never was very decent was he?" The name almost strangled him but he forced it out, offering Mrs. Hudson a wan smile that was mirrored instantly.

"No he wasn't." She chuckled sadly and her hand was back at rubbing at her eyes. "I know this hasn't been easy for you dear."

"I'm fine." He stood up, his chair screeching across the linoleum and fixed her with his most defiant look. "Absolutely fine."

"Liar." Sherlock smirked from his chair in the living room, running his fingers silently over the strings. Only severe shock kept John from reeling back into the sink and in the next instant the detective was gone and Mrs. Hudson was talking.

"- and I don't want you to feel rushed dear, I know what it's like. And after Sherlock anybody'd have a bit of a rest but I will need it John I can't pay for this place on my own. There's so much needs doing, and I can't do it, with my hip, but you take your time love and get it to me when you can, no worries. I'll not turn family out into the street." She offered him a maternal smile, John simply stared trying to put the words together into something that made sense, but he kept getting interrupted by the far too recent memory of Sherlock staring at him over his violin, which was in itself buried somewhere down in 221c., with the damp and mildew. Like Sherlock was buried beneath his headstone, in the wet and mud.

He shook the melancholy from his head and focused back on his landlady with some difficulty, she was saying something about having a bridge game with Mrs. Turner and lemon biscuits in the oven. He nodded and tried to look politely interested.

"And do think about the rent John. I know your off a job but anything helps."

Rent! So that's what all that was about. He made a noise of agreement, nodding and ushering her out the door. The click of the latch was like the release of a great weight and John sank unceremoniously to the floor. He felt stretched and empty. He wanted to climb back into his bed and pull the sheets up over his head. Rent, job...people...they all seem to hang from his neck like lead weights, drowning him in reality when all he wanted to do was disappear into a desert of memories and dreams. Good dreams, not the hellish apparitions of the last month.

"Illusions. Hardly worth bothering with."

His head snapped around and he stared, determined not to look away, not to blink. Sherlock stared indifferently at him, sitting cross legged in his chair like he had countless times before.

"You're not real."

"Astute of you."

John searched for something to say. He wasn't real. He shouldn't say anything. He should close his eyes until he went away and never mention it to anyone. He shouldn't pray for him to never leave again, shouldn't stare until his eyes hurt, shouldn't hope to God that he was crazy or dead so that Sherlock never had to leave him again. He shouldn't. But he did it all anyway. Finally he found a few words, his voice raw with suppressed tears.

"What are you doing here?"

Sherlock gave one of his careless shrugs, like they were back in Buckingham palace, Sherlock in his sheet and John fighting to keep his criminal record clean.

"Well I couldn't just leave you here to mope." Sherlock leaned back, curling his hands under his chin.

It was getting harder and harder for John to breathe, sobs kept tangling in his throat and choking him. He refused to release them, taking steadying garbled breaths and forcing himself to calm. Fighting off the tears that were threatening to cloud his vision.

"If I blink...will you go away?"

Sherlock's cerulean eyes narrowed, his head cocked in debate.

"I don't know." There was mild surprise in his voice. John nodded, keeping Sherlock in the corner of his eye as he wobbled to his feet.

"Never thought I'd see the day." John quipped shakily.

"You still haven't." Sherlock watched John closely, his eyes flashing like polished glass. "I'm an illusion John. You will see what you want to see, but it isn't happening. I'm a product of your own mind." He heaved an aggrieved sigh. "Imagine what it's done for my intelligence."

John chuckled harshly, his eyes falling to the floor.

"Well it hasn't done much for your people skills." When he looked up again 221b. was empty. "Sherlock?" There was no reply. He hadn't expected one.


	3. Chapter 3

**I do not own Sherlock that belongs to the BBC. Tell me what you think!**

The first time John had seen Anderson after Sherlock's death the man wouldn't look up from his toes. The second time he'd seen him, he wouldn't stop preening, apparently outing the infamous detective had warranted a pay raise and a promotion. John had forced himself to walk away before he broke the annoying man's over large nose. He hadn't bothered to return to the Yard after that and had told Lestrade anything else that needed 'sorted out' would have to be done through the mail. Sergeant Donovan had sent him a line through his blog, he'd gotten as far as 'I'm sorry for your loss, but I did try to warn you.' and deleted the whole thing before he did something he wouldn't necessarily regret. Lestrade had called him up a few times, but the conversations had been stiff and awkward, Sherlock's death sitting like a wedge between them and eventually they had both pulled away. John hadn't heard from Molly since her teary "I'm sorry." at the funeral, and he suspected she was avoiding him. He couldn't think why and decided it had something to do with memories and grief. Of all his supposed friends all John had left now was Mrs. Hudson and the occasional kind bible verse from Ms. Turner next door. It was as if the last two years had never happened. And he had nothing but a skull and his own failing mind to remind him that it had.

_John tailed after Sherlock down the lazy London street. He couldn't remember if they had a case, but he wasn't worried. These things tended to pop up around Sherlock, no matter what. John chalked it up to luck, he just wasn't sure if it was good or bad. Perhaps a queer mixture of both. What did concern him were the look's people seemed to be giving his friend. They turned their heads to follow his progress down the street. _

"_He's not real." Anderson told him as he passed, decked out in scrubs, chocolate smeared across his face. _

"_He's a fake." Donovan agreed from the opposite side of the sidewalk. "Just look at his eyes." She held them out in her hands, a pair of painted glass eyes. _

"_I'm sorry." Molly murmured behind him, John spun and- was she wearing Sherlock's coat? _

"_Now let him be." Mrs. Hudson gripped his arm, reaching up to pat his cheek. "Don't you worry dear, Mrs. Turner's got married ones!" She pointed across the street where Mrs. Turner was hefting a pair of porcelain dolls, beaming and waving._

"_Wha-" John stammered, trying to stand still in a sea of changing faces. "No..." _

"_It's true John." And that was Sherlock's own voice, drawing John back around to where the detective stood in front of him, arms spread wide, hands limp, thin slippery wire rising from his shoulders and wrists._

"_Look up." Mycroft demanded and John did._

_All the way up to the clouds where Moriarty stood, larger then life and smiling his Cheshire grin, jerking Sherlock's strings._

"_Hello Johnny boy!" _

"_NO!-_

Ah!"

John blinked in the sudden flood of light, chest heaving, his blankets sticky with sweat.A dream. He sighed and relaxed back into his pillow. Another dream. Twisting to his side he fumbled for the clock. 6:12am. He'd almost managed five hours.

"Not a bad night." He forced himself upright, running his hands down his face with a sigh. "Not particularly good but uh..." He nodded wearily, reaching an absent hand to rub at his aching leg. "Not...not bad." He cleared his throat, throwing back the blankets and working his way out of bed, frowining as the pain in his leg persisted. When a few moments of heavy massage failed to aleviate it John decided to ignore it in favor of a shower. It wasn't the first time his leg had given him trouble, especially in the early morning and a few minutes beneath the hot water had been known to help.

Gathering his towel, John limped to the washroom, wincing with every downward step. The sweat from his nightmare chilled on his skin in the early morning air and he shuddered. Moriarty's skull like grin wouldn't wash away from his mind, no matter how often he blinked and John found his aggresion rising with each second the image lingered in his brain. If he'd been given time with that bastard-, he stopped leaning heavily against the bathroom door, his breath coming in haggard huffs, his leg aching resentfully. It was too late for that now. The bloody ponce had taken the cowards way out, and taken his friend with him... leaving John to pick up the pieces... God he wished there were more pieces. He wrenched the loo door open, only partialy surprised to find Sherlock leaning over the sink.

The slueth looked up as John regarded him from the doorway, leaning to take the pressure off his bad leg.

"Morning." He gave John a once over, his lips tightening in response to something he saw. "Limp's coming back." He returned his attention to the sink, peering through his collapsable magnifying glass.

"No it isn't." John's voice was soft and hoarse, his grip tightening on the doorjam. Sherlock made a small noise of disagreement, before glancing back at his flatmate, whose head was bowed, chest pumping as he fought for breath. Each inhale rattled in John's chest, and Sherlock's face showed a jolt of surprise as he realized that his friend was crying.

John tried not to shake as he drew in breath after breath, and when he looked up, he had to blink away visions of strings tangling over Sherlock's head, and around his neck, Moriarty's breathless giggle whispering across his neck.

"You're not a fake." John blurted at last, standing to military attention and pressing his lips together to stop the sobs. Sherlock's answering expression was one of pity and annoyance.

"Oh John you were making such progress!" He slapped angry palms against the sink. "We discussed this." he gave a bored sigh, peeling something that looked like mold up from the sink.

"No, I mean, you were- you weren't a fake." he cleared his throat. Sherlock had grown still. "You never lied to me Sherlock." Sherlock opened his mouth as if to protest but John spoke over him. "Not about this, not about you." he jabbed a finger at the frowning detective. "You are- were-" He took a moment to compose himself. "One hundred percent real." He fixed Sherlock with his most determined look, nodding his head in decision. "And nothing anyone says is going to convince me otherwise, so..." He dropped his eyes to the floor, still nodding determinedly.

"John..." Sherlock began, but when he raised his head, the bathroom was empty. Squaring his shoulders John continued with his shower, his fist gripped tight against the pain in his leg and the tears in his eyes. And though John stayed under the hot spray longer then he would have liked, the soothing water eventually washed the pain from his leg... but it did nothing for the tears in his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**I do not own Sherlock. Property of Doyle and the BBC.**

John wasn't a fool. He was a doctor. As stupid as Sherlock had always thought him there were somethings he knew for certain. Seeing dead people wasn't a good thing. Talking to them was even worse. John knew what it meant to hallucinate. He may have been able to chalk it up to lack of sleep and daydreams before but... two weeks in was too much. This wasn't just natural imagination any more, if it ever was. It went deeper then that. He was almost pleased. Life was hell anyway. It seemed better to die quickly then to try and pretend he had the heart to keep going. A brain tumor might be operable, a good many were, especially if they were caught quickly enough. But John had no intention of turning himself over for treatment. What was the point? What was he living for? Nightmares and hallucinations? His best friend was dead. His life was hell. He was tired and just getting tireder. There was no point for him anymore. He'd spent his whole life fighting for someone else. And that was fine, he'd been glad to be able to help. But now... now he just wanted to sleep and be happy again. He wanted to forget war and lies and madmen. John wasn't much of a religious man. His time in the war had convinced him of a higher power and his days as a doctor had seen him spewing comfort to his patients about heaven and happier places. He had enough hope left to wish for that. A happier place. A place where Sherlock's mind could take a rest and the highstrung detective could find a little peace. And John could be with him. That was what he wanted, the one dream he had left that hadn't been shattered by Moriarty and death. He was tempted to take it. To swallow a fistful of pills and wait to greet his flatmate in the afterlife. But he couldn't do that to Mrs. Hudson. He couldn't put the guilt of another suicide into her life, and leave her wondering if there was something she could have done. So he'd wait for the tumor to do its job, and until then he'd keep up the charade, for as long as he could. Mrs. Hudson would be alright. She'd mourn him and move on. But John...John couldn't do that. Not for Sherlock. Sarah, his sister, the boring teacher, he could forget them. But not Sherlock, never him. Who would ever forget the wonderous Sherlock Holmes?

"Phone Lestrade."

John's lips pinched and he raised the newspaper a little higher in front of his face. He was job hunting. Or trying too. It wasn't going well. Decorated war vetran, certafied M.D. And the best he could do was a part time job behind the counter at the little tea shop with the orange door. It didn't help to have the world's only consulting detective standing over his shoulder, demanding that he take up his lost trade. He heard Sherlock huff and pace another lap.

"Phone Lestrade, he's bound to be in over his head, especially with idiots like Anderson working for him." Derision dripped from each syllable. John simply bent his head a little closer to the ads. "Come on John! There's nothing for you in there! Call Lestrade! Do something useful!" Finally John reached his limit and the paper snapped shut, his eyes rising beseechingly to the ceiling.

"For the last time! Sherlock-no! I'm not becoming the next consulting detective! I'm not tangling up in-in murder! And kidnapping! And gang fights! Not anymore!" He attempted to return to his job hunt.

"Why not?!"

The newspaper flew to the floor. John dragged a hand through his hair and spun to face the bewildered detective.

"Because I'm not you, Sherlock!" John fixed Sherlock with a stare that the illusion returned his expression confused and disappointed. "I'm not clever! Or observant! Not like you. I don't know the difference between _two_ types of tabacoo ash let alone two hundred and fourty-two!" When Sherlock made to interuppt John spoke louder, "I don't see the small things! I'm not a genius. Sherlock." John broke the stare, crossing his arms and ducking his head to hide the wetness in his eyes. No more tears. He'd promised himself. When he raised his eyes once again his face was peaceful, if edged. "I'm not a detective Sherlock. Not without you."

Sighing John turned and seized his jacket from it's place beside the door, stomping out to the landing.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock demanded behind him.

"Out." John replied shortly, never slowing his steps. He bumped into Mrs. Hudson on the stairs. He held out a hand to steady her, mumbling an apology and trying to sidle past. She stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Oh, John dear, I was just heading up to see you. I've got a bit of chicken and potatoes left over from dinner, I was wondering if you'd like me to make you a plate? I know how difficult it is to get the shopping in with everything that's happened."

John's heart twisted for the little old lady who had done nothing but take care of him for the last month and a half so he forced a smile.

"That would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson, but actually I was just on my way out. Why don't I pick it up for lunch tomorrow?" He slid past her. "I'll see you tomorrow. Don't bother waiting up."

Mrs. Hudson watched him disappear onto the street, the hand she'd raised in farewell falling back to her side. John Watson was a rare man, he'd survived Sherlock's life for two years, and now it seemed his death would be the thing to kill him. And Mrs. Hudson was rapidly losing the hope that she could help.

John hunched over his empty cup waving for another pint. The bar keeper slid it in front of him, foam sloshing over the sides and watched carefully as John raised it to his lips. A good bit of it ended up on the front of his shirt. But he managed to find his mouth and gulp half the glass in one breath.

"You know with every mouthful of that poison you manage to swallow you kill what little brain cells you might have had."

John drained his cup.

"Shut up Sherlock."

He heard Sherlock's customary sigh of disappointment. He proceeded to ignore it and wave for another beer.

"Migh' have to cut you off soon John, you've had more then a stomachful and no mistake." The bar tender cautioned, placing another frothing cup in front of the good doctor. John waved him off.

"I'm alright Henry.I've only had...what's it been? Four?"

"This'll be seven Doc, not to mention those three shots of burbon."

"You see?" Sherlock's tone was one of derision. "You've lost the ability to do even rudimentary maths. You should go home before you take up karaoke on one of the table tops. I think the general populace, no matter how inebriated, would sleep better in their beds without having seen _that." _

"Shove off." John griped, burying his nose in the suds of fermented hopps. Sherlock made a soft noise of disapproval, but John felt him fade away.

John lost track of how long he sat there, nursing that one last glass of lager, lost in thoughts of gun fights and murder, high speed chases and hours sat in front of his laptop. A loud ruckus at the door brought him from his stupor and he jerked his head up quickly. What he saw made the bottom fall out of his stomach, and the alchohol he'd consumed attempt a revolution back up his throat. Anderson.

The sallow faced man was positively preening, surrounded by a small horde of people that let out a din of obnoxious laughter everytime he moved his mouth. John could only assume he was being ridiculously stupid. He turned back to the counter, draining the alchohol from his glass and begging Henry for a shot of something, far, stronger. So far the technician hadn't seen him, too busy catering to his friends, there resulting guffaws making John's brain spin deliriously, the noise somehow morphing into the morbid whispers of a handful of stranger's, gathered round the sidewalk...exclaiming over the blood...so red...bright, bright scarlet, flashing like polish on a woman's nails... smeared across _his _face like graffiti across the face of an alabaster statue...cold and still...poetry. Maybe it was time he headed back to Baker St. He ordered another shot instead. He was so enamored in his drink he'd almost forgotten about Anderson and his posse. Until he felt someone hit him, too hard, on the back.

"Well, well, Doctor Watson. Fancy seeing you here. Not out poking around other people's crime scenes?"

John knocked back his most recent shot before turning to grimace at Anderson, fighting his mouth into some mockery of a polite smile.

"Anderson." He greeted, ignoring the cheap dig at his lost career. "How's the missus?"

Anderson's face tightened and he offered his own grimacing smile in return.

"She's here actually."

John's eyebrows rose skeptically, but he followed Anderson's gesturning finger. The rest of Anderson's party had moved further into the bar, descending into a drepressed area where a pool table and darts had been set up to amuse the patrons. But the woman he was pointing at had remained topside and at the sight of Anderson's gesturing finger she approached them, an amicable smile on her face. The first word that leaped to John's mind in regard to Mrs. Anderson was...stupid. The next three were 'Don't be rude'. But something about the sight of Anderson's wife unsettled him. He couldn't decide if it was something he actually saw on her or something about his crushed hope for a beady eyed troll, with warts and slobber. Mrs. Anderson might have been a plain looking woman but she had an easy, open face and dark guileless eyes that gazed at Anderson with the fondness of a woman devoted.

"Marietta come and meet the famous John Watson." Anderson's smile was vicious but John ignored him, focusing on giving his wife his sincerest smile. Marietta flashed a smile in return but her eyes were suspicious.

"Lovely to meet you John. Sullie's told me so much." She offered a hand and John shook it, fighting to keep a neutral expression.

"Sullie?" His eyes slid to Anderson and he managed to smirk while his mouth remained entirely level. Anderson's face purpled in response.

"My husband." Her tone was confused.

"Ah! Course, sorry, not used to the short form, we're more-" enemies. Arch enemies. "Colleagues. Then anything else. We try not to let things get too personal." Like Anderson's hand on his back was too personal. Far, far too personal. John attempted to ignore the weight of it, pressing on his shoulder, raising his glass to his lips.

"Oh, I didn't think Sullie liked anyone to use his proper name? Sylvia is so femenine."

John choked on his drink, alchohol rushing to his lungs.

"N-not many people understand... are you alright?"

John nodded, gasping for air, laughter fighting the coughs in his throat.

"No, -cough-cough- I'm fine, I just um-ack!- swallowed wrong."

"Marietta, why don't you go and get the doctor some water." Anderson spoke quickly, his tone far too harsh to be suggestive.

"Of course." Marietta hurried around to talk to the bar man and Anderson dragged John to the top of the stairs, seething.

"Think my names funny?" Anderson snarled. Behind him John heard Sherlock scoff.

"Of course your name is funny you bumbling idiot! It's meant for a woman!"

John put on his most serious expression and shook his head.

"No, course not. Sylvia is a beautiful name. Lovely. Exactly the sort of name any mum would want to give her daughter." his face cracked and he grinned. "What's the middle one? Harriet? Janey? Marie?"

Anderson's expression was murderous and John thought he might take a swing at him, when his wife arrived with a glass of water.

"Here's your water. Are you feeling better?"

John smiled, taking the glass and sipping gently.

"Thank you, Mrs. Anderson, that's lovely." He raised it in toast before taking a deeper drink, the water helping to soothe his liquor addled stomach.

"Marietta." the name was blurted so quickly John wasn't sure what he'd heard and she must haved read that in his expression because her next words were slower. "Marietta, please. My mother was a Mrs. makes me feel old when people use it on me, especially with no kids." she gave a nervous laugh. "I'm not as ancient as I seem."

"You sure you don't want to change that to 'as young as I seem'? You've aged brilliantly for someone in her late thirties."

Marietta's eyebrows jumped and beside him Anderson ground his teeth.

"How di- I mean... I..." Finally her mouth snapped closed and she flushed. John couldn't leash his smile.

"Did I get it right?"

Mrs. Anderson's head jerked in the affirmative and John thought Anderson might break a tooth.

"But how?"

"The same way I know that you knit, your dress is brand new and you don't drink." John watched her face closely to make sure he was still on track. Her expression never changed from astonishment and John felt more buzzed then he had after his last drink. He had always understood why Sherlock solved crimes. His racing mind needed something to focus on, something complex. He had never understood Sherlock's need to belittle people. Now he did. Not the belittling. Obviously. Although to Sherlock that would seem like the best way. But to deduce people, to inspire instant respect from them, coupled with the gratification of being right, and the superiority of reducing someone's life to a list of facts... it made his head spin.

"Obvious. Dull." Sherlock murmured close behind him and John grinned wider. Even the detective's derision couldn't lessen his high.

"How did- how?" Mrs. Anderson was still gaping at him and John chuckled.

"I'm a doctor, and I work-worked... with Sherlock Holmes. All the things I mentioned have markers, clues that if you get it right can tell you a lot about a person. For example," He cleared his throat, stepping forward and plucking something from the collar of Mrs. Anderson's gown. "The dress." He held the thin plastic tag line up for Mrs. Anderson's inspection. "You kept tugging on your dress, when you were by the stairs earlier, and again when you went to fetch my water. Something about it was bothering you, but it wasn't something you could fix easily. If you'd worn the dress before and knew it was itchy you would have done one of two things. One, sold the dress, or, two, taken precautions against the irritant. You did neither so it's reasonable to assume you've never worn the dress before. Yes?"

"Yes." She giggled and a smile made her face light up. "What about the rest of it? How did you know that?"

"Was it all true?" John gave her another smile, Anderson nearly forgotten.

"Me first. How'd you know?" Marietta pressed, eyes dancing with joy.

"The age was a doctor thing. Spacial markers in your face did most of it, coupled with what I know of Anderson's marriage." John felt a small bruise of guilt start pulsing in the center of his stomach. Considering what he did know of Anderson's marriage. He studied the woman smiling across from him. She obviously deserved to know how her husband was treating her, but he wasn't sure it was his place to tell her. Sherlock would've. John pressed on, pushing the Anderson marriage from his mind. "It was a rough guess, I hope I didn't offend..."

Marietta shook her head, still grinning.

"No, no, that's fine. I'm used to much worse. I'm a partner in a big firm, people don't assume you can do that young."she fixed him with an admiring look, and John's chest swelled the slightest bit. "Go on, what about the rest of it?"

"Right, yes." He pulled his focus back from mental gloating, clearing his throat at the lapse in personal character. "The knitting, was another hunch, calluses on the fingers, I felt them when I was shaking your hand. A lot of things cause calluses...um, drawing, painting, a few instruments I think... but ah, knitting seemed like the best bet." He flashed her a smile. "I saw the scarf you hung up by the entrance. Beautiful. Could hardly tell it was home made." Marietta's face flushed with pride. "I had a friend- Sherlock, he really liked scarves. Always wore one." Mrs. Anderson's face gentled and she took his hand, squeezing it in compassion.

"Well you were right, about all of it. The dress is new, I'm 38, I knit that scarf, and I don't drink. That's amazing John thank you."

He waved it off still smiling softly.

"Sherlock could have done better."

"Much." Sherlock agreed behind him and John fought the desire to roll his eyes.

"Much better." John added, for his benefit. "Could have told you your life story."

"He sounds amazing. I would have liked to have met him." Gone was the suspicion of a devoted wife, replaced by the compassion of a decent human being, John felt happier then he had in several weeks. And then Anderson ruined it. He scoffed.

"Yes. A very neat trick. To bad he used it to dupe and murder people, isn't that right Mara?" His wife opened her mouth uncertainly but Anderson pushed on over the top of her. "Imagine, kidnapping children and killing them with chocolate?" Anderson straightened to his full hight, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Just to impress a handful of police officers and one crippled soilder?" He gestured to John dismissively, talking more to his posse of followers then to his wife now. "The sick bastard."

John could feel his anger rising, his fingers twitching with the desire to spear into Anderson's face.

"I reckon he got what he deserved, flying off that building."

John's hands were fists.

"Pity really, that he died before someone could take proper care of him."

John had taken care of him. The best care. He'd kept him fed and warm and sane.

"Ignore him John, he's an idiot." Sherlock advised dully. But Anderson refused to be ignored his voice going louder and louder, John's hands clenching tighter and tighter. The alcohol was rushing back into his brain as his heart pounded and his vision swam.

"I'd have liked to taken a go at him myself, if he hadn't been such a coward. Tricking poor dumb bastards into thinking he's some kind of god?" his hand fell on John's shoulder. "Kidnapping kids, blowing up a whole floor of flats? Making that poor bloke, what was his name? Richard Brooke! Making him mental! If the bastard wanted to die I'd have been more then happy to put a bullet through hi-"

"Nawhh!"

John sat in one of the interrogation rooms down at the yard, icing his knuckles. Anderson and his wife sat beside him, Anderson holding his shoulder and wimpering like a kicked dog, tissue stuffed up his nose. A small chordless tv was set up on the table in front of them, Lestrade bent double trying to make out the grainy picure. He looked worse then John remembered ever seeing him, hair sheered short, face sallowed and haggard. At least a week of sleepless nights written in the bags under his eyes. John felt bad, dragging him out of bed for something as petty as this, but Anderson had insisted on immediate justice. The ponce.

"Anderson you twat!" Lestrade whipped around to glare at his head of forensics. "He didn't even touch ya'!"

"Yes he did!" Anderson protested immediately. "Look at his knuckles!"

"He bloodied his damn knuckles the same way you bruised that gigantic snout of yours!" he gestured at the running video behind him, ignoring Anderson's glare. "Bashed it on the ruddy support thingie, dodging Dr. Watson's drunken hay-maker. Then you tumbled down the stairs and dislocated your own shoulder ya' ruddy idiot!"

Anderson's face went red and he glared at the D. . Lestrade ignored him.

"Now get out of here and get your bloody arm set!"

"Oh." John raised a hand. "I could have a look at it if you want?" he put on his most sincere face.

Anderson shot him a death glare, seizing his wife with his good arm and yanking her upright.

"Lets go Mara."

John leaped up after them.

"Oh, actually. I was wondering if I could talk to you Mrs. Anderson?"

Marietta studied him over her shoulder as her husband froze, fury etched into his face.

"I should really get him seen to..."

"It'll just take a moment."

She hesitated.

"John." Sherlock demanded coldly. "What are you doing?" John didn't answer. "Aren't you the one that told me it is kinder to lie?"

"Not always." John mumbled, trying not to move his lips.

"That woman loves her husband. Do you want to be responsible for changing that?"

"She deserves to know."

"John-"

"And since when do you start caring Anderson and his wife?" John had to fight not to turn to his apperition.

"I don't." Sherlock intoned darkly. "You do."

That made him pause, and the loss of Sherlock rise up like a new tide in his belly.

"She deserves to know." He repeated, watching as Marietta left her husband to stand in front of him.

"What is it John?" Her tone was soft, eyes down cast.

"I'm really sorry about all this." He gestured at the blood on his knuckles. She didn't look at him and he steeled his resolve. "But Anderson... there's something you should know about your husband Marietta." She looked up at last and John rather wished she hadn't. "He- he's not- ah, criminey this is hard. Okay, look, Anderson is a no good, rotten, miserable-"

"Hold on John." Marietta interupted, her face feirce. "I know what my husband is. I've known him longer then you or anyone else..." John opened his mouth and she held up a hand to silence him. "I've known my husband since university. I knew him when he was an art major." John's eyebrow spiked. "I helped him pick a new field when he flunked. I was there when he found his passion. My fingerprints were the first he ever took." She smiled wistfully, shaking her head. "I knew when my husband loved me. And I know when he stopped. I know what you're trying to tell me John. And I appreciate it. But I know that my husband cheats on me. And that he's a complete arse sometimes... I sincerely hope that your friend knew better then to take him to heart... but he wasn't always this way John. There was a time when my husband was a kind man, and couldn't speak a word against anyone. When he believed in fairy tales and happy ever after." She ducked her head, tears glinting on her cheeks. "Then he joined the force and the world wasn't such a good place anymore. Suddenly all I heard was how horrible everything was, how useless... it stopped being about catching bad guys after a while and just turned into making the most money. Impressing everybody. Being the best." She gave him a sly look. "Your friend didn't help with that." John winced and shook his head helplessly. She wrapped her arms about herself, shivering lightly. "My husband wasn't always a bad man. You might have liked him once. I did. And I know he doesn't love me now, that I'm the second place he comes when he needs loving, but I can't give up on the fact that my Sullie, the boy from university, my husband is still in there somewhere. Waiting." her face was dejected and she shrugged listlessly. "I promised forever, I'm gonna give him as much of it as I can before... well." her smile was thin and broken. "Good bye John."

"Ye' mm, you too. Good bye."

"Oh, John?"

"Hm? Yeah?"

"You never told me how you knew, that I didn't drink."

John forced a smile, the words slipping from his mouth without permission.

"Stab in the dark."

She smiled.

"Good one. Bye John."

"Bye."John breathed a sigh as Marietta returned to her husband, all the energy washing out of him. Poor Marietta... John thought of a younger Anderson, an in love Anderson... Naw' still hated him.

John said a half- hearted good by to Greg and headed for 221b.

"Sentiment. It makes people such imbeciles." Sherlock's forlorn sigh twisted his head to the left and he smirked.

"Even you."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Nope, not fooling me Sherlock, I know your sentimental."

Sherlock scoffed.

"On what proof?"

"You once through an american spy out a window because he bruised your landlady!"

Sherlock sniffed haughtily, tugging his coat collar up.

"I did not."

"Yes you did."

"Conjecture."

"Don't worry I won't tell anyone."

They continued in silence for a moment.

"You missed." Sherlock scowled in dissapointment.

"What?"

"Anderson. You missed."

John threw his head back and laughed.


End file.
